The hunter appeared from his nest, his hungry eyes swept across his messy surroundings.
He quickly adapted to the new environment, as shown in the picture a predator entering a fertile hunting ground, and then a mysterious smile appeared on his pale corpse-like face.
He opened his arms, embraced nothingness, and enjoyed the darkness.
This shadowed chessboard, this black jungle, and this hollow peak, here, it is like his hometown.
But hometown—
However, his memory is not a good place. The Apresis Nest City is an overly vast city.
On its shaky foundation, scarred stones and snow-covered ridges are connected to neatly arranged reinforced concrete and steel. The city is built in a deep crack on the planet, with the iron base coiled in the dark cave like the roots of a giant rusty tree. An endless industrial grinder continues to expand behind it, the cracks churned with smoke like the breath of a devil, and a toothless mouth stretched toward the devastated ground.
On it, the polished rocks grow the lowest towers and levels like molds, connected with many thick gates to the eye, countless roads passing through the wilderness, and finally they enter the enclosed space to seal against the cold.
Then it was destroyed - destroyed by his own hands, just as the Primros had done to his mother planet.
After waking up, with urgency and excitement, he left, jumped into a striking shadow, and transformed into a ghost flashing in the shadow.
This is the rear of the enemy, and he should need to be careful, but he knows there will be no real enemies here.
He climbed over the vertical bracket, scratching his claws, pedaling with hooked feet, jumping between the silent ladders, and then hanging upside down like a dead body.
He heard the sound from the passages on both sides, so he settled his body and pretended to be the rags on the wall.
In such a messy pile of buildings, a huge giant transformed into an invisible figure with unimaginable flexibility, as if he was overwhelmed at midnight.
Then he pulled out his claws, stared at the sharp blade and trembled, waiting, every muscle tensed up.
With each sense running and alert, his thoughts found himself free to wander, and the past penetrated into his memory like oil immersed in sponges: wandering in the night like death.
When the attack came, the palace was in chaos, and his fake father advised him to stay there, but he chose to escape, through the halls and corridors filled with screaming servants and roaring guards, and rushed into the force field generator room. Although the old technician priest tried to stop him, he used the ritual dagger given to him by his fake father on his tenth naming day to pierce the only remaining machine eye of the old monster, taking away the gene key he forged—the gift given to him by his fake mother, representing who he should not have been his identity—the closing procedure of the palace shield.
A few minutes later, the shield was put down and destruction came.
The voice gradually faded and he regained his ruthless mood.
He stabbed out his claws, and slipped into the cracks of the rocks as if he had penetrated his ribs, allowing the darkness to swallow him.
The place is illogical, with all kinds of simple houses stacked together, with chaotic stairwells between each other, with devout statues and missionary pulpits, but they are still chaotic and disorderly.
The ancient stairs lead to unknown locations. The tunnel passes through knotted beams and plastic garbage. Twisted and wound cables spew out of the cluttered partitions and coils upwards. The collapsed tunnel is re-drilled or bypassed. The raised sluice opens, making a gurgling sound, and the floor is full of scalded mucus.
This place is the largest refugee camp in the Red Sand Mountains, and it is said that nearly one million people are piled up.
These people are hopeless, useless, and have nothing to do, split into criminal gangs of all sizes, searching for fungi and carrion in the dark-
In his opinion, these are not humans, animals, and mice.
The hunter felt disgusted, and if it was a reward for loyalty to the Emperor, he would have wisely chosen his side.
He retracted his thoughts, focused all his attention on the footsteps of the coming prey, and let go of his right hand-at the tip of his handguard's hook claws slightly bent.
Two men came out of the tunnel beside him, wearing jackets and iron beard pads, whispering softly, and taking restrained steps, as if they had been liars for life.
In these caves, caution is as natural as breathing.
This is not beneficial to them.
At least two breaths, the first one was dead, and before his brain even realized the threat, a pair of sharp blades rushed from the shadows toward his face, sliding like icicles across his eye sockets.
The hunter threw away the body, appeared from the niche, facing the second person.
In my memory, the voice of the master who was killed by him was hissing, like pouring sand, flooding his mind:
"Let them see what you can do, steal their hope, just like shadows steal light, showing them yourself...weapons are similar, but their effects are eternal, fear, fear is weapons."
In the hallway, standing in the pool of blood of his fallen friend, the second man looked at his nightmarish face, trembling and choking and began to scream.
"Look at me."
The hunter said, reaching out his hand to the other party.
Of course, this man could not see anything, he was simply blind.
They are all.
By the end of the next day, there were already twelve preys, seven men and five women.
Their reactions were so varied that it surprised the hunters, most of whom screamed from the beginning, when he met them, when he bent his paws and growled, when he painted their horror with a paintbrush like an artist, and carefully added a suffocating gouache of horror to the grime of fear, his heart thrilled with the justice of what he did.
And they tilted their little heads back and screamed.
However, some people were silent and stared in shock, like silent animals—the black eyes raised, the lips twitched, and the face was pale.
In these cases, hunters snatch them with their claws and slide through layers of debris to hidden places where they can restorate their sound.
Then you can start screaming.
One of the women impressed him, and she knelt down and began to pray, some murmuring to the emperor.
The angry hunter cut off her fingers one by one, enjoying the change in her expression.
One of the men tried to fight him, but the process was insignificant.
He lurked in the ruins, in the corner of a settlement filled with refugees, considering this fear palette, like a painter who intends to mix new colors.
But always, this joy is always sucked by hatred, rage and anxiety about failure.
He asked himself, what did he learn from his killings? What did he discover from his numerous works and numerous depictions?
there is nothing.
He painstakingly portrayed everything he witnessed in the hunting grounds, carving it affectionately on the skin of each victim, but their ignorance remained intact.
Since he killed his former master and truly took control of the War Gang, something has always devoured him and gnawed his heart.
He staggered in the darkness, fell into contemplation, venting his anger on the broken bricks and stones of ancient buildings.
But none of this helps anything.
So, again, after the hunting, the void attacked, he left here, crossed a long distance, and returned to the place he set out.
The servants said, "That Sarbodong, or Garmozejie, seems to have something to look for him?"
But he didn't care and didn't want to pay much attention.